Sir Alexander Sinclair, chosen from among seven brothers in a family that had produced no daughters, had been admitted to the brotherhood on his twentieth birthday. None of his siblings, all of whom were now of age and two of them knights of the Temple while a third rode with the Order of the Hospitallers, ever suspected that their brother Alec held a secret station above and beyond any of theirs. And because the duties imposed upon him by the brotherhood had made it all but impossible for him to interact normally with his brothers in their workaday world of filial and familial obligations, Christian dedication, and feudal loyalties, they chose to believe that their brother Alec was an ingrate, guilty of turning his back on his family responsibilities. Alec had had no other option than to shrug and appear to accept their condemnation.
And so he had disappeared into the secretive world of the brotherhood, where the Governing Council, having assessed and quantified his every trait and capability, began to educate him in a specific way, for its own purposes. Alexander Sinclair, Knight of the Temple, was a spy for the brotherhood.
You are deep in thought, ferenghi. Al-Farouchs French was fluent, despite the guttural overtones of his Arabic diction. Sinclair smiled wryly and scratched at his scalp.
I was thinking about my situation here, thinking I ought to climb back up onto your horse and make good my escape before your friends arrive to rescue you.
If they arrive. Nothing is certain but what is written, and it might be Allahs will, blessings upon His name, that I should remain here and die.
Sinclair thought about that for a while, then nodded slowly. I find myself believing that Allah might be reluctant to discard a weapon as strong as I suspect you might be for him I was also thinking that I do not enjoy the thought of simply riding off and leaving you here alone to live or die, strange as that might sound to you.
The Saracens eyes narrowed to slits. More than strange. It smacks of madness. Why should you care what happens to me here, when every moment that you remain places you in deeper peril of being taken, if my men arrive?
A bleak smile flickered on Sinclairs lips. Call it a family weakness, bred in my bones: that no man of honor should ever leave another to die when he might either save him or help him.
Honor. It is The Saracen paused, searching for a word. It is a concept, no? A reality without substance. One that is given much external recognition but is truly understood by very few.
Even among the faithful of Allah?
Even so, alas, as I am sure it is among your own kind.
Aye, yons the truth Sinclair had lapsed back into Scots, but even so he could see that the man across from him had understood his tone.
What is your name, ferenghi? You know mine already.
Lachlan Moray. The lie sprang naturally and unbidden to Sinclairs lips.
Lachlan That almost sounds like an Arabic name. Lach-lan Murr-ay.
It might, to your ears, but it is Scots.
And you have but little beard. I thought all Frankish knights had beards.
Sinclair scratched ruefully at his stubbled chin. It is true. I would never be mistaken for a Templar were I in the midst of them. But if I stay out here much longer the beard will grow and I will regret that. I have an affliction, even in the eyes of my comrades, in that my face has little hair and my skin is do you know the word delicate?
The Saracen shook his head, and Sinclair shrugged. Well, as my beard grows, the skin grows scaly and itches painfully, and so, to maintain my sanity and keep from scratching myself bloody, I choose to keep my face clean shaven, when I can. Few of my fellow Franks can understand that. He said nothing of the fact that being clean shaven enabled him to wear a false beard of whatever shape and texture he required from time to time in the course of his work.
Tell me of Hittin Hattin, as you call it.
The request was straightforward, but couched as it was in a mild command, it caught Sinclair unawares so that he sat blinking, unable to think of a response.
The Saracen sat straighter, flexing his shoulders. You asked me when you first arrived if I had been at Hattin, and the tone in which you asked caught my attention. I was not there, as you now know, but Hattin is close to the place you call Tiberias, and the Sultan, may Allah smile upon him, summoned us to gather there. Was there a battle there? Is that why you are here alone?
The Saracen sat straighter, flexing his shoulders. You asked me when you first arrived if I had been at Hattin, and the tone in which you asked caught my attention. I was not there, as you now know, but Hattin is close to the place you call Tiberias, and the Sultan, may Allah smile upon him, summoned us to gather there. Was there a battle there? Is that why you are here alone?
Sinclair silently cursed his own carelessness, but there was no point in lying now. He sighed. Aye, there was a battle.
I see. And it was decisive?
Aye, I fear it was. We were defeated. Your side was victorious.
Allah be praised. What happened?
What happened? You ask me that? Have you ever been in a major battle, involving thousands of men? I have, several times.
Have you ever held supreme command in such a battle?
The Saracen frowned. No, I commanded my own men, but I am no general.
Nor am I. So you know as well as I do that a warrior in a battle has little awareness of what is happening in the overall sense of the fighting. He only learns of victory or defeat from what he sees at the end of it. In the midst of it, he strives to protect himself and his mento stay alive.
This battle at Hattin was enormous. We had the strongest army ever gathered solely in the kingdom more than thirty thousand strong. Knights, Turcopole allies and infantry. Your Sultan, Saladin, commanded at least twice our number, probably more, and we were beaten. I saw only glimpses of the main battle, from afar. I was wounded and unhorsed early, breaking my arm, and then was left behind in the fighting. I had a friend with me and we escaped together that night. We decided to make our way back to La Safouri, but we were overtaken by the storm.
Where is your friend now? the Saracen asked.
Gone. Somewhere in the sands. He dragged me behind him for two or three nightsI was raving mad from my injuriesand then he went looking for water, leaving me asleep in a cave he had found. When I woke up the storm had arrived. I have not seen him since. He could be anywhere. I pray he is alive, but I fear he may be dead.
So what will you do now? Where will you go if you ride away from here?
I have no idea. There might be no place for me to go. Sinclair grunted, part laughter, part disgust. Perhaps thats why I am loath even to make the attempt.
Al-Farouch held up a peremptory hand, his head cocked suddenly as though listening. Sinclair strained to hear what it was that had attracted his attention, but he heard only the stillness of the desert, and eventually the Saracen lowered his hand, shaking his head.
I thought I heard horses approaching. He looked at Sinclair, one eyebrow rising high on his brow. I suggest, however, that if you are contemplating an escape from here you should leave now. Sinclair turned his head slightly to gaze out into the gathering dusk, mildly surprised that the day had vanished so quickly. I have been thinking about that, he said, before turning back to al-Farouch. And I find that I have a conflict to resolve in my own mind. We spoke of honor briefly, a short time ago, and honor, in my life, involves responsibilities that we Franks call duty.
Al-Farouch nodded, his face impassive. We, too, have duties, some of them more onerous than others.
Very well then. Since you understand the concept, as you called it earlier, perhaps you can help me to resolve my dilemma. This day is almost done, so were I to leave now, I would be riding out into the darkness with nowhere to go and no knowledge of how to get there, for the sole purpose of avoiding capture by your warriors. I might achieve that anyway, simply from their failure to come here at all. Then, on the other hand, I might ride straight towards them in the darkness if they do come, for I have no means of knowing the direction theyll come from.
My dilemma is this: if I ride off blindly into the desert now to avoid capture, with no knowledge of where I am going, will I be acting honorably, because it is my duty to win free, or will I be guilty of dereliction of duty by acting foolishly and endangering my own life needlessly? Do you see what I mean, Master Saracen? Is my duty better served by riding off in the darkness now, perhaps to die, or by remaining here and taking my chances? Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Sinclair resumed. Besides, as Ive told you before, I like not the idea of leaving you here alone And so I have decided to stay here until the morning comes. Then, providing there is no sign of your men, I will make you comfortable and ride far enough away to avoid capture, and there I will wait. If your rescuers do not appear, I will return and eat with you, for nothing will have changed, and I will still not know where to go.
Al-Farouch ran the tip of his middle finger down the length of his nose and pressed it against his pursed lips. Why do you say you do not know where to go? Were your losses at Hattin so grave?
Sinclair rose to his feet and went to lean against the edge of rocky wall that formed their small shelter, staring out into the approaching night. When he spoke, he did so without turning his head. Night comes quickly here, in the desert. In Scotland, where I grew up, the evening light at this time of the year can linger for hours after the sun goes down. There is no word for it in French that I know of, but we call that time of lingering betwixt day and night the gloaming It is the loss at Hattin, more than our losses, that concerns methe defeat itself, rather than the casualties, although God knows they were appalling. Your Sultan, from all I know of him, is not a man to ignore an opportunity sent from God, and to his eyes that is how his victory at Hattin will appear. Tiberias will have surrendered to him by this time, I suspect, with the army crushed, and I already know his men have taken La Safouri, and probably Nazareth, too. Were I he, backed by a victorious army and knowing that the Frankish forces are in disorder if not completely destroyed, I would march on Jerusalem at once. He straightened up and turned back towards the other man. And that, I fear, leaves me with few places to run When did you pray last?